RUDIMENTS, pt. 408
(woodbridge 10-pins)
I feel a bit more is due the old
bank building, so I'll run on
a little. There's something
about the past that comes
through very well when
you're dealing with granite
and stone. Once you get
into today's simpler palaver
of faux this and that, or a
pasty stucco facing, or some
too-cute-by-far converted
gas station masquerading as
a colonial-fronted bank, it's
all too far gone to even
care about. When I speak
bank, it's those old cathedral
monstrosities I mean : there
are still numerous ones about,
right around here, let alone
NYC. You can still find them,
re-used or under-utilized in
South River, Plainfield, and
Sayreville, Keyport and in
Perth Amboy, too - to name
but a few places. Once you
hit upon one of these, the
days of the past come back,
no matter what re-engineered
use they may have now. Step
inside one of these and you
can tell immediately how
the very use of space was
once different : vaulted ceilings,
balcony overlooks, columns
and ante-rooms. All of life,
time, and space were different
once - broader in scope, and
more regal too. Everything now
has been as if 'downsized;'
even logic, thought, and
reasoning. None of it through
the real fault of anyone.
-
In Woodbridge, when we got to
this bank, no one knew much
what to make of it. Another guy,
dead now a long time - Gary Pry -
from Fords I think, he helped us
move too. It was only perhaps a
long block away, but we trucked
and hitched the stuff we needed
and got the move and the job
done. Before long we were up
and running in the new joint.
It's funny, when you end up
in a new workspace, deciding
where to place things and
how to situate what you want
and need - will this work
here? Will that be convenient
there, if this is here...?
-
They make interior layout
guys just for that purpose
- professional ladies and gents
who can optimally design and
process places for you, but we
had none of that. We were just
winging it, and things moved
around a lot at first. Bill K.
(previous chapter's mention)
was most concerned with the
nearness of the radio to his
workstation (big Led Zepplin
fan - which group had just
come to be) - but the old
radio-play stuff was mostly
junk; might have even been
AM only. Why he bothered
I never knew. We eventually
got it all figured out and what
it left us was a lot of extra space,
until another guy bought in and
moved his equipment in too.
He was a guy named Jim Rattigan,
and he lived over along Main
Street near the National Guard
Armory and, back then, the boxing
club and High Hill Garage. (Both
gone now). There was a bunch
of new split-level homes built
there. His little shop was in an
old firehouse in Fords, across from
the Fords Women's Club. Jim was
a different kind of guy, a brawler,
an Irishman, who drank a lot and
went bowling too in some Weds.
night league over at Bowl-Mor
in Woodbridge. I was the guy sent
to Fords with him to help HIM
move, and we schlepped all his
stuff over to Main Street from that
little firehouse. It took about a week.
He had some big, heavy-ass stuff,
typesetting equipment and some
linotype machines that a rigger
had to take; cabinets of type,
all sorts of things, even lead
ingots, which got melted into
liquid to make the letterpress
letters for printing, then used and
printed from, and then re-melted
and used again as new liquid.
Pretty weird, but I learned it all,
the entire process, and became his
early-morning printer's devil guy,
cleaning the bands and melting the
lead in the AM each day, as he'd
show up about 10 to start work.
Lots more than one time old Jim,
with his little Tipparillo cigars,
would come in the next morning
after bowling night, with a freshly
blackening eye, or a bruised and
cut-up face. Just another fight in
the Bowl-Mor yard, fueled by beer,
and he never cared. I took a lot
of guff myself from Jim, but never
cared. Here's the ending funny-scoop
on him. He took the family down to
Peru, that very next Summer - wife,
daughter, and a son too - and never
came back. They did, but not him.
He died there, on a beach somewhere,
from a poison dart that was shot at
him from the tree-line somewhere.
Sure was the weirdest story I ever
heard, and he really must have had
some enemies. Back about then, too,
trouble was in Peru with the anti-Gov.
Tupemaro Guerrilas - kind of a
native resistance force who killed at
will - tourists, military, and police.
Never did I get any definitive word,
but we figured that's what killed
him, the local hot-politics; certainly
not such a screwed-up bowling feud
from Woodbridge. National sport
down there must have been darts.
-
Anyway, with Jim I heard a lot
of shit, as we worked. Stuff about
women, what he'd do to this or
that one, and how he'd do it too.
All the usual crap I certainly (yeah)
didn't need to hear about. I hate
people who talk about their prowess
with the magic wand, like it was
nothing at all. Man, that bugs me.
I never met his wife, but sometimes
I sure pitied her, in my thoughts.
-
Jim liked the new bank-building
location. We gave him a lot of the
front, left side. He bragged about
his space, and how good it was for
his working. That other guy, Dick
Martin, with the new Buick, worked
with Jim over there. He's the Marlo
Thomas guy from the previous
chapter too. Then we also hired
a Rutgers grad, or student or
something. He was always
around, and pretty odd too. I
forget his name, but he had
a beard, so we just always
called him Weirdo-Beardo.
And then, from Perth Amboy
was this guy named Dennis
Manganero, bouncing off an
ugly divorce; talked a lot about
it all. He became like the floor
manager guy (there were only
four of us, so big deal). And
then he got sweet on the
daughter of the guy next door
who had a newsstand and
candy store. Jewish name, I
forget, like Dresser's News,
or something. She worked the
counter there, and he was
always back and forth, back
and forth, with her. Dennis
was. And also, he drank gallons
of tea. Always a take-out cup
of tea in his hand, with the
stupid string thing hanging
down out of it. I last saw him,
maybe ten years ago, running
a gasoline station over in the
'Clara Barton' section of what's
called South Edison. He both
recognized me and remembered
me, and we talked for about
15 minutes. It was cool.
-
Those old Main Street Woodbridge
days were major. Lots of things to
remember. I used to sit out front
each morning, early, with a coffee,
on break. Every morning, always
about the same time, 7:40 or close,
this chubby guy with Pennsylvania
plates, would pull up and park, but
leave the car running as he ran into
that news-store I mentioned, and he'd
come right back out with the NYTimes,
WS Journal, Daily News, and Herald
Tribune too, when that was around.
Then right back into the car, and off.
Every day. Another time, this guy and
lady came in from some organization.
They wanted some printing done. I
stood at the counter with them, for a
long time. It was the lady who was
calling all the shots, knew exactly
what she wanted, how much they
had to spend on it, timing, format,
everything. The guy was just along
for the ride. All was cool, but I was
freaking out : this lady, maybe 35
at most, was wearing a gauzy, black
see-through blouse, really (oh those
old days) and nothing underneath it.
All I kept seeing was her two vivid
breasts, the entire time. Oh well,
you had to be there. I figure now
that about then was the beginnings
of what we live today. ("Some are
mathemeticians, some are carpenter's
wives. I don't know how it all got
started; don't know what they're
doin' with their lives...').
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